L'heure Bleue

Another blue hour at the park, precious minutes between sunlight and dusk when the night seems on the brink and frozen. Snow has a way of making things stand still, even sound, and the color, which wanted to be orange under these terrible park lamps, was blue in spite of their effort. The snow was blue, my breath was blue, the slush sounds of traffic crawling over the ice was blue. Like a crushed berry. Even our tracks were blue, jazz notes caught on a blowing page, impermanent but perfect. Blue shadows amid blue drifts like a painting no one thought of. A splash, a streak of red, prancing merrily through the scene. Duncan, warmth enough on a night like this.